


Broken Toes and a Space Heater.

by Prisoner0001 (TooHotchInTheHottub)



Category: MASH (TV)
Genre: Hawkeye does his doctoring thing, Hawkeye is guilty, I love this pairing, It's all quite innocent, M/M, No Smut, No really. Just read it, Some random foot stuff snuck in, This is actually much better than I'm making it sound, episode fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-11-23
Updated: 2014-11-23
Packaged: 2018-02-26 19:29:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,936
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2663657
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TooHotchInTheHottub/pseuds/Prisoner0001
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After disappointing Radar (and the rest of the 4077) Hawkeye begins to make amends the only way he knows how. Father Mulcahy feels foolish.<br/>Episode fic. 'Fallen Idol', 6x03.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Broken Toes and a Space Heater.

**Author's Note:**

> My fandoms are all over the place. My fleet of ships is very diverse, and very, very gay.
> 
> My first venture into MASH
> 
> Be gentle with me.

The dirt settled on Hawkeye’s boots. He considered for a second that he very much knew how it felt. The white paint on the door before him was peeling; the crucifix weathered by time and the war. Hawkeye adjusted the first aid kit under his arm and squinted around, ready to see the whole camp glaring back at him. Instead he saw no-one. Somehow it was worse. His mouth thinned. He licked his bottom lip and rapped on the wood.

“Yes?” Father Mulcahy’s soft voice floated out from behind the brown wood grain.

“Uh… Can I come in, Father?” Hawkeye asked, anxiety tugging on each syllable.

“Yes, Haw- uh, please do.” The priest stuttered. Hawkeye almost walked away, fearing that this conversation would go as well as his attempt to patch things up with Radar had. However, he knew that Mulcahy hadn’t asked anyone to look at his foot. Hawkeye Pierce knew how to do two things: take wonderful, treasured friendships and smash them on the floor, crushing them beneath his boots, and fixing bodies. He’d already done the first today, he might as well do the other, he mused. He sighed and pulled the door open. He stepped inside, bringing the dirt with him. He stood just inside the doorframe, the padre’s battered straw hat sat on its hook beside his head. Father Mulcahy lay on his cot, stretched out on his right side. He propped himself up with an elbow, his left arm resting across his waist. His index finger held his place in the good book. His muscular legs were bent, his feet still laced into his boots. His soft blue eyes held Hawkeye’s, a weary look settled there, a blush of shame crept up his neck.

“I thought I might take a look at your foot. I know you haven’t had it checked out yet.”

“That’s very kind of you, Hawkeye.” The priest closed the bible before throwing his legs over the side of the cot and sat up.

Hawkeye noticed the curve of the padre’s abdomen as he sat up. The preacher had a boxer’s body – lean muscle and a thin waist. It was masculine, it was strong and it was, Hawkeye realised, quite a thrilling sight. He loped forward, action to stave off thoughts, grabbing a folding chair as he went. He unfolded it and sat down. He was very close to Mulcahy, his knee wedged between the father’s. He knew that he should move back, quit invading the priest’s personal space, but to pull back his chair would feel too much like a retreat, so he stayed where he was. He put the first aid kit on the cot beside the other man.

“Since I am responsible for this particular injury, it doesn’t feel like kindness to me.” 

Hawkeye reached down and lifted Mulcahy’s right foot. He rested is on his left thigh. The padre had to shift back to be comfortable, he came to rest on his elbows, reclining.  
Hawkeye now got a view of the lean body spread out. He didn’t want his gaze to linger, so he turned his eyes downward, to the task at hand, and began unlacing the boot.

“It wasn’t your fault, Hawkeye.” Father Mulcahy whispered.

“Oh, yeah?” The dark-eyed doctor caught his patient’s eye, holding him there, trying to keep his anger in check, “You know someone else who did something so…stupid, so utterly boneheaded that caused an otherwise mild-mannered priest to single-footedly dismantle a heater in retaliation?”

“Well, I’d be more inclined to chalk that one up to the stress of the…uh, police action.”

Hawkeye smiled in response to the shy grin the Mulcahy flashed him, before returning his attention to the task at hand.

“I was afraid that if I took them off, I might not get them back on again.” Mulcahy offered with a small wave at his boots. Hawkeye hummed in response. He gently eased off the boot, allowing it to fall to the floor with a puff of dust. His thin fingers tenderly pushed up the bottle-green trouser leg until he found the end of the black sock. This sock was much like the rest of them trapped at the 4077th, barely held together, worn out, frayed at the edges and scarred by feeble attempts at repair. Hawkeye’s fingertips brushed down the soft skin, following the path of the sock as he removed it. He ignored the tingle of excitement that zapped down his spine. The sock joined the shoe on the floor. The priest’s foot was much like the rest of him, lean, muscular, and thin about the middle. He had high, graceful arches and squared, slightly bony toes. Hawkeye gently ran his hand over the skin. Father Mulcahy jumped a little and suppressed a giggle.

“Ticklish, Father?”

“A little, yes.”

“I’ll try not to do it again.” Hawkeye announced solemnly before he immediately ran in index finger straight up the underside of Mulcahy’s foot.

“Hawkeye!” He squealed, half indignant, half amused. He squirmed a little, careful to keep his foot still, cradled in Hawkeye’s hands.

“Sorry Father, did I touch your sole?” The laugh was there, hidden in each syllable, lurking in the flash in Hawkeye’s eye as he glanced up at the priest. He suddenly set his shoulders, examining the foot with clinical efficiency.

“Hawkeye…”

“Has anyone ever told you that you have lovely feet, Father?”

“No, I can’t say as they have…” He replied, wincing when Hawkeye gave his second-smallest toe an exploratory wiggle.

“Well, they won’t again, unless I strap this broken toe.”

“Oh dear, I feel so foolish.” He admitted as Hawkeye reached for the kit.

“You feel foolish? I attacked the most innocent, helpless guy in the whole war… while he lay in post-op.” He worked at strapping the toe.

“I kicked a stove.” The statement emerged with a wry smile.

“Yeah, well –”

“That was, of course, after I railed… in my own embarrassingly high-pitched way, at a very dear friend. A man who has made this war a little more bearable for all of us. A good man. I should have gone to him, talked to him to discover the reasons for his uncharacteristic insensitivity. Instead, I responded with… a knee-jerk reaction…”

“…literally.” They both finished, grinning. Mulcahy’s flickered out first and he continued talking.

“I mean it, Hawkeye. I should have been there as a comfort to you. Not stand as your judge… or as a militant swamp-redecorator.”

“I could have swallowed my pride and come to you.”

“Hawkeye.”

“I know I’m not Catholic…”

“Nobody’s perfect.” The priest’s habitual retort made them both quirk their lips skyward.

“…but, you believe in penance and absolution, right?”

“Yes, I do.”

“Then why haven’t you, uh, prodded me toward some kind of confession?”

“You pay for your indiscretions, many and varied though they may be, by doing what you do best. You save lives, Hawkeye. Not just with your hands, but with your attitude. We all look at you and feel a little stronger. A little saner. Besides, your confession could make my tent-flaps curl.” He drawled at the end, Hawkeye laughing his loud, frantic monkey-chatter of a laugh. Mulcahy chuckled with him.

“Doctoring is the only thing I ever wanted to do. There was no doubt in my mind that I’d be a surgeon.”

“You have a God-given gift and a remarkable tenacity…”

“Look who’s talking. There aren’t many innocents at the 4077th.”

“It isn’t my job to judge, Hawkeye. We’re all stuck here in this… whatever this is. Whatever we can do to get through it, and remain intact… keep our humanity… I don’t think He’d much mind.”

Silence descended over the pair then, both men lost in their own thoughts about Korea and the price people had to pay when countries didn’t get on. They barely remembered where they were. Hawkeye was still cradling the padre’s foot, tracing lazy circles on bony ankle with his thumbs. Mulcahy had tilted his head backward, his eyes studying the canvas roof above him. Finally his eyes slid shut. It wasn’t until the father hummed gently at the soothing feel of fingers on his skin that either man returned to themselves. Their eyes locked and the doctor cleared his throat, the priest’s face was painted with a pink flush.

“Sorry, Father… I uh…” Hawkeye busied himself packing up the kit, refusing to meet Mulcahy’s eyes.

“It’s quite alright, Hawkeye.”

The flurry of activity that was Hawkeye Pierce came to a sudden stop at the strange note of affection in the Priest’s voice. He swallowed nervously, his adam’s apple bobbing while his tongue snaked out to whet his lip.

“It’s fine. You are a tactile man by nature…” Father Mulcahy sat up and rested a hand on Hawkeye’s shoulder. Hawkeye focused on the rise and fall of the chest before him, his head bowed. He didn’t want to look. He didn’t want to see. He didn’t want to see a kindly, understanding expression on the Padre’s face. He certainly didn’t know what he’d do if he looked up and saw anything approaching heat in the gaze turned on him. So he stayed infinitely still.

“Ben?” It was accompanied by a squeeze to the shoulder. Hawkeye usually hated the name, but now it seemed fitting; it made it easier for him to pretend that they were other people.

“John?” Hawkeye couldn’t abide calling him Francis, John was a much safer name…It wasn’t a priest’s name. It was the name of the man on the street. Common. Safe.

“It’s okay Ben.”

“It’s not… I don’t know what…” Hawkeye looked up, “I find myself wanting to… kiss you, Fa– John…” 

“Ben, it’s fine. I understand.”

“How could you?”

“Temptation isn’t foreign to me, Ben… I wasn’t born a priest, and they don’t surgically remove the… wanting… from a man when he’s ordained.”

“You often find yourself wanting, John?”

“Sometimes…”

“Now?”

“Ben… I don’t think…”

Both men sat, barely breathing, eyes locked in this strange embrace; Hawkeye’s hands once again gripping the foot in his lap, Mulcahy grasping at the shoulder. Both men were trembling, Mulcahy more so because his position was sending a burning tremor through his abdominal muscles. The sounds of the camp drifted through the green canvas, As Hawkeye leaned forward and the priest stayed still, waiting, a familiar sound broke through the tension.

“Incoming casualties!” the loudspeaker announced.

Hawkeye turned his head minutely, then he smiled.

“I suppose that’s the equivalent of us being caught by your Dad.” He smiled and it was only a little rueful.

“He moves in mysterious ways.” The padre shrugged, unsure what had come over him, and fearing that it hadn’t dissipated.

“Come on, I’ve got to go. You take it easy. I’ll check on you when my shift’s over.” Hawkeye placed the Father’s foot down and stood.

“NO! What if I’m needed to administer the last rites?” Hawkeye took in the indignant, dutiful flash of his eyes before he returned to Mulcahy’s side.

“I’ll help you.” Hawkeye snaked his arm around the priest’s back, resting beneath his shoulder. Supporting him gently.

So they emerged from the tent, into the chaos of triage. If the father leaned a little more into Hawkeye than was strictly necessary and if the doctor held him tighter than he absolutely needed to then no-one would notice. 

Soon, the preacher was handed off to Klinger, to arrange for a set of crutches and Hawkeye saw to his job. He saved lives that day and barely thought about the new feeling growing in his gut… a hopeful confusion beside the despair…

**Author's Note:**

> I love feedback.  
> Just sayin'  
> *hint, hint*  
> *hopeful grin*


End file.
